


You Know The Rules

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows there's a price to be paid when he fucks up. He does. And Dean'll do what it takes to keep them both in line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know The Rules

Sam's late.

Dean knows how long it takes a taxi to weave through the 10 blocks between him and the Westin. Knows how long it takes to snag a cab this time of night. That Benny, the weeknight doorman, has kind of a crush on Sam and always makes sure there's a Red Top waiting after his 11 o'clock.

Though Benny always pretends that Sam is a stranger. That he doesn't see him like clockwork on Tuesdays and Thursdays, always with his hair wet and his suit just a little more wrinkled than when he came in.

Benny's a good guy. Even if he looks too long for Dean to be happy. Not long enough, in Sam's eyes, because he's never been willing to pay.

So.

Sam's late.

20 minutes, 30. 45.

Dean's worn a crop circle in the carpet, his boots making tracks he knows he'll regret tomorrow when the maid comes in, dragging the vacuum and reaching for his favorite ashtray, yes. She always makes him feel--dirty, somehow. Like she knows what he does, what they do, and she sure as fuck doesn't approve.

Dean doesn't give a shit, but he doesn't like that look in her eye. She looks at him a little too long, and steers around Sam like he's contaminated. Something less than.

Well.

Sam's a lot of things, maybe, and so is Dean, but less than? Not even close.

He smokes his way through the rest of the Camel Reds, burning his fingers and chewing on the filters, yeah. He's worried.

No. He's fucking terrified.

Not like Sam doesn't know how to take care of himself. Defend himself. Hell, he's bigger than 2/3 of the men in Boston, anyway, and more's the fool that would try anything with him. Anything they didn't pay for.

But Sam's never been this late. Always comes back like clockwork, a professional, a pro. This is routine, somehow, in their crazy fucked up lives, and Sam's gone and broken it in two.

Dean yanks the clock out of the wall, the numbers flashing panicked blue, then black. He throws it in the wardrobe and slams the fucking door, which makes no sense. He knows it.

Can't stop time, even when you're not looking.

An unwatched clock still turns.

Fuck.

An hour.

He goes for his keys, then, digs in the safe for his gun.

Then the door opens. 

Quiet, like an afterthought.

He almost misses it, that click of the lock coming home, and he snaps up, halfway between relief and fury.

"Sam," he says. "Where the fuck have you been?!"

He doesn't answer right away. Goes through the motions of setting the chain before he turns, that beautiful face flushed and hard, his eyes gleaming.

"Benny," he says. Casual, sweeping his coat from his shoulders and reaching for his tie. "He got tired of just looking."

He pushes the bills into Dean's hand, a fat roll of twenties and twin Franklins all rolled into one.

Dean's still holding the gun, though; the keys are cutting into his palm, and the bills slip free. Fall to the floor, the nice white carpet dug in with Dean's footprints and papered, now, in green.

Sam watches them fall and Dean can feel him hovering. Waiting for Dean to choose his role.

Jealous lover. Brother. Pimp.

Dean doesn't look at him. Can't. Puts the gun back in the safe, careful. His keys on the dresser. Leaves the money on the fucking floor.

Turns back, and Sam's strung like a bow, on tenderhooks. Waiting.

Because whatever he is, whatever he does, he knows: Dean's the one in charge.

And he's broken one of the rules, maybe the biggest one there is left between them: 

Dean books the jobs. Sammy doesn't freelance. Period.

"So," Sam says, finally.

Dean doesn't answer. Just crosses the space between and lets his eyes crawl all over Sam. He looks too long, sending his gaze like a spider over Sam's body until he sees Sam shaking from the whisper of green over his face. His throat. His crotch.

Dean goes to his knees, slow. Slow. Opens Sam's belt, his zipper, and drags out Sammy's cock. Doesn't bother stroking or teasing, just yanks the thing into his mouth and opens his eyes, watches Sam's go wide and fast. He ignores whatever shit Sam's saying over his head: please and Dean and, ah. There is is.

"Let me touch you," Sam gasps. "God, Dean. _Please_. I can't--"

Dean pulls away long enough to say:

"You know the rules, Sam."

And when Sam comes, his fists at his sides, his mouth open and wailing and needy-- god. so fucking needy--Dean watches him go to pieces, tastes it, too, and then he's up before Sam's cock stops twitching. Furious and hard as hell and scared, still, that hour still locked up in his skin, making him crazy, making him want.

But determined not to let Sam have. 

He shoots the lock in the bathroom and jerks off as loud as he can, moaning all the shit that Sam likes to hear, that he knows makes Sam crazy, some song of fuck and so tight and god, Sammy. God!

Then there's white his hand, wet, and he hears Sam on the other side of the door, trapped between a groan and a curse.

"Please, Dean. Fuck. Let me touch you."

"No," Dean grits, the warm slick still heavy in his palm. "No, Sam. Go to bed."

He waits a long time, listening for the sound of the lamp and sigh of the bed. The little shuffle shake of Sam's breath as he gives up, gives in. Does what the fuck Dean tells him to do.

When he slips out, the black almost blinds him, and that's good. That feels right.

He makes it to the couch and settles in to watch Sam sleep. To keep the Bennys of the world at bay. 

In the morning, he'll slide between the sheets and let Sam fuck him slow, let himself be kissed and adored and reassured.

_Never happen again, Dean._

_You're in charge, Dean._

_I'll do what you say. I will._

And Dean will let himself believe. He will. 

Sam knows there's a price to be paid when he fucks up. He does.

Still.

Dean leans back, lets his head droop. 

He doesn't know what time it is, but he can feel that it's late.

That unwatched clock, well. It still turns.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by winchester-cathedral, who asked for "Wincest, Sam and Dean are hookers. Or one is the pimp and the other is the hooker. Your choice."


End file.
